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by Elleh



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff overdose really, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleh/pseuds/Elleh
Summary: KyouHaba domestic fluff because sometimes that's just what one needs. And them specially.





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**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write fluff, but this was soul-healing. From a prompt i got on the blog, and since apparently people have liked it on tumblr I thought it'd be nice to share it here too.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

Yahaba is at his place again.

Kyoutani knows it’s him even before opening the door, the knocks familiar after so many times of the same thing. Yahaba says nothing, strides inside, and kisses Kyoutani’s cheek. A single peck, dry and short, and Yahaba is already barefoot and walking fast down the corridor. By the time Kyoutani closes the door, tidies Yahaba’s messy things scattered around on the entrance, and makes it back to the living room, Yahaba is already face flat on the sofa.

“Long day?” Kyoutani says, like every day.

“The longest.”

It’s warm and dumb, the fact they’ve created a routine of the same silly thing. Kyoutani looks at Yahaba’s form, melting on the soft cushions of the sofa, and a small shake overtakes his insides.

Staring at Yahaba always makes his body go all weird.

“Come. Make it better,” Yahaba pleads against a pillow.

“No. I’m making dinner.”

“Who cares about dinner.” It’s cute, how Yahaba turns his face enough so his left eye is free to judge Kyoutani’s existence. “Come and make me happy.”

“No.”

Yahaba whines, but snuggles further on the sofa. Kyoutani goes back to the kitchen, finishes chopping the vegetables and throws them on the pot. He’s half paying attention to Yahaba, drifting in and off sleep. There are dark circles under his eyes, but when Kyoutani walks to him, the tight line of his lips appears softened.

“Move.” Yahaba takes his legs off without opening his eyes. Kyoutani snorts, because who wouldn’t at the clear sight of Yahaba’s devices, and sits, grabs his legs and puts them on his lap.

Yahaba hums low and happy.

“What about dinner?”

“Will be ready in twenty.”

“I’m hungry.” Kyoutani huffs. “And tired. My feet are sore.” Kyoutani rests his head on the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. Yahaba groans, and kicks his leg. “Do something.”

“Shut up. Dinner will be ready when it’s ready.”

“Come here.”

“I’m _here_.”

“ _Closer_.”

Yahaba’s watching him when Kyoutani opens his eyes. He has that pout and that frown and that mischief shining in his eyes. He is the image of soft, little devil Kyoutani can’t take out of his head, and if his heart does a little happy dance it’s because Kyoutani’s tired, too, and he has no control over his body. Nothing to do with how nice it feels to have a routine, with how unexpected it is to not only accept Yahaba’s presence overtaking his free time, but wanting it.

A knot fills Kyoutani’s throat. Sometimes he’s afraid of how much Yahaba has invaded his life — _him_ — in such a short time.

“No,” he says, to mess with him, to keep himself from wanting more and more and more.

“ _Hug me_.”

“No.”

“Kyoutani.”

It’s an order. Kyoutani shudders, fingers digging in Yahaba’s shins. Frowning, he looks down at Yahaba’s wide, expressive eyes, and groans loudly. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Yes, yes. Now, do as I say.”

“I should kick you out, fucker.”

“Do it,” Yahaba dares, raising his arms over his head, arching his back and hips. His body screams, _I am the king of this place and I can make myself as comfortable as I feel like._

Kyoutani can’t deny him that.

He’s rough and harsh when he moves Yahaba, half dragging him on top of his lap, half kicking him off the sofa. Kyoutani barely manages to fit on the small space he creates, glued to Yahaba’s back, nose buried on his nape. He inhales deeply and lies telling himself this is just for Yahaba’s benefit.

Yahaba sighs in Kyoutani’s embrace, the pure sound of a relaxed being finding after a long day of tension the desired comfort. Kyoutani hugs him harder, and Yahaba grabs his hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it once, twice, thrice.

“See? Nice.”

“You smell awful.”

It’s not true. He smells fresh and alive and Yahaba, Yahaba, Yahaba. Kyoutani rubs his nose on him, and hopes for his own smell to stick to his skin, to his clothes, to his life.

“Shut up, idiot. Hold me tighter.”

Kyoutani does. Yahaba kisses his hand again, his fingers, his wrist. There’s such care in the soft touches, in the way Yahaba’s lips shape Kyoutani’s skin, in how Yahaba keeps whispering, _tighter, tighter, tighter._ Kyoutani has become another part of his body by the time he dares ask, “That bad of a day?”

“Fuck, yes. I couldn’t wait to come here and see you.” Yahaba wiggles in his arms till he turns around and they are face to face. Kyoutani doesn’t kiss him, but it’s not for lack of want. Yahaba kisses the tip of his nose. “Hi.”

“Little late for that.”

“Mmmh, I like your hugs.”

“Yours suck.”

Yahaba bites his cheek, and Kyoutani complains out loud, and Kyoutani tightens his hug, and Yahaba’s body adapts to Kyoutani’s, as if he’d been born to change his shape so he could fit into Kyoutani’s edges.

It’s hard for Kyoutnai to understand the logic of his happiness, when this is the simplest, dumbest thing one could be happy for.

“You smell good,” Yahaba whispers against his neck.

“I showered earlier.”

“I wanna shower too.”

“Go. We can eat later.”

Yahaba snuggles closer. “Don’t wanna. This is nice. You always make going back home nice.”

The blush is unfair and uncalled for, but Yahaba notices because he’s skin to skin with Kyoutani, and how the fuck wouldn’t he notice when Kyoutani is on fire.

Yahaba’s smile is Kyoutani’s favourite: the carefree, tired but content smile he wears so rarely.

“You get embarrassed for such stupid things. It’s cute.”

“Fuck off. I’m not cute.”

Yahaba kisses his lips. “The cutest.”

“Shut up.”

“So, so, so cute.”

“Shut up, fuck,” but Yahaba is kissing him, or smiling on his lips, his arms iron bars around his neck, and he snuggles closer, and he sighs deeply, and Kyoutani is lost in the simplicity of the moment, on the peace it brings to his soul every day, every week.

“I love cuddling with you.”

Kyoutani’s so red by now the dinner could be cooked on his body. He wants to groan, _Cuddling with you is the worst_ , but instead he mumbles, “Me too.”

Yahaba kisses him again as a reward. And then again. And then he closes his eyes and lets Kyoutani’s warmth and Kyoutani’s embrace tear away, layer by layer, the awful workday, and the tiredness, and the soreness, and the fact they will have to work tomorrow too, but tomorrow feels now like hundreds of years away.

“I feel like staying like this all night,” Yahaba mumbles.

Kyoutani kisses Yahaba’s temple, his closed eye, his forehead. The words vanish in the hollows between their bodies. Yahaba’s half asleep already, breathing in a constant, slowing pace. Kyoutani wants to stay like this forever, but reality is right on the kitchen, peeping annoyingly to let him know he has to stand up and go back already.

A last kiss on Yahaba’s temple. Yahaba snuggles closer, and Kyoutani says, despite himself, “Eat. Shower. And then cuddles.”

“Are you ordering me?”

“Yes,” Kyoutani growls, the mockery on Yahaba’s half assed question enough to piss him off. “You look like shit.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Come on. The food will get cold.”

Kyoutani untangles himself from Yahaba’s limbs, who snuggles back into a sleeping position before Kyoutani has even stood up. “I mean it, Yahaba.”

“Mmmh. Will you bath with me?”

“I showered already.”

“You said cuddles later.”

“Fuck, whatever. Yes, I will. Now, drag your stupid ass off the sofa and let’s eat. I’m starving.”

They eat their food in silence, and bath in silence. Kyoutani takes care of Yahaba, of his sore muscles, and his stiff back, and his hair, and his heavy eyelids. He kisses Yahaba’s ear, and Yahaba’s neck, and Yahaba’s shoulder, and washes him and takes him to bed. Piliable and tired and spent from a day Kyoutani can picture as the most stressful, Yahaba lays expectantly, and he’s on Kyoutani’s chest and sighing contently into sleep as soon as Kyoutani makes it under the blanket.

Yahaba’s wet hair tickles Kyoutani’s chin. That reminds him. He should buy a hairdryer.

“Yahaba.”

“Mmmmh?”

“Want me to clear you a drawer?”

A beat of silence, and then, “You mean…”

“Yes.”

Kyoutani has never been as chokingly hugged before as he is when realisation reaches Yahaba. It’s so tight Kyoutani’s air is kicked out of his system.

“Yes, yes, I want to very much.”

“Great. Now sleep. Night.”

“Kyoutani,” Yahaba whispers against his shoulders. “I like you so much.”

If Kyoutani hugs him as tight as Yahaba has hugged him before it’s only in retribution; if his heart starts beating fast and lightly, it’s because Yahaba’s laugh fucks with his systems.

He doesn’t say, _I like you so so so much too_ , but Kyoutani’s pretty sure it goes unsaid.

 

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, you can find me [here](https://negare-boshi.tumblr.com/)


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